


Midwinter

by lori (zakhad)



Series: Captain and Counselor, the revised versions [1]
Category: Star Trek: The Next Generation
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 14:18:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17081888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zakhad/pseuds/lori
Summary: The captain is not used to having a counselor aboard.





	Midwinter

Inside the doors are sealed to love,  
Inside my heart is sleeping  
Inside the fingers of my glove,  
Inside the bones of my right hand

Inside it's colder than the stars,  
Inside the circus of the winds  
Inside the clocks are filled with sand

Inside the winter's creeping  
Outside the stars are turning  
Outside the world's still burning

I climb this tower inside my head  
A spiral stair above my bed  
I dream the stairs don't ask me why,  
I throw myself into the sky.

"Inside," Sting.

 

The report from engineering showed that repairs were coming along. Picard set aside the padd and sighed. MacDougal -- or was it MacDuff? MacSomething. The chief engineer he'd listed as third choice and gotten by process of elimination, by any other name. Why the two choices he'd known personally had opted for other postings escaped him; this was a marvelous ship, in spite of the few less positive aspects of it all.

Whoever had thought children belonged in space should have come along for the journey to Farpoint. Although he agreed in principle with the idea of humankind making long-term forays into the galaxy, and allowed that concessions had to be made to entice good crew to go on the journey, in practice it was dangerous and risking the lives of children made little sense. 

Also, his senior officers were all green. Oh, the first officer had some experience -- he had the resolute professionalism of a seasoned Starfleet officer, yet there was something about him. . . . Pride? Yes. But not in such quantity that it would interfere with duty, Picard thought. Which made it all the more curious that Riker had turned down his own command to be here. 

And Dr. Crusher -- Beverly. Such an unusual turn of fate that she would request this posting. Had she been thinking of him when she'd done it? He put away that train of thought before it went any further. Best not to begin to entertain anything beyond the professional.

Yar would be efficient and eager to defend, almost to the point of foolhardiness; Worf was rougher, less disciplined, but also determined to be honorable. And the counselor -- how young she was, how warm and pleasant and yet she had some polish, when not overwhelmed by sensed emotions.

His brief contemplation as he gazed at his lion fish making its stately way around the curve of the tank was interrupted by the annunciator. "Come," he exclaimed, before he remembered -- this would be the counselor, sitting down with him for the first actual appointment as such. Sitting with her on the bridge had been different; their roles were clear to him there.

She came into the ready room at a stately pace, her barely-standard-issue uniform having been set aside for a form-fitting blue dress; her comm badge was affixed to her shoulder, above her left breast, higher than usual. Regulations were explicit about the location of the comm badge, not to mention the necessity of uniforms, but he couldn't bring himself to mention it to her. This was a ship of many luxuries and departures from what he had come to expect as normal aboard a starship. Besides, she looked better this way, with her hair pulled up into some sort of ornament and her skirt long.

"Good afternoon, Counselor Troi," he said, finding the practiced polite smile he usually adopted in diplomatic situations quite useful. He stood automatically, minding his manners, and gestured at the chair across the desk, where his first officer had been sitting an hour before while discussing the ship's status. "Please make yourself comfortable. Would you care for something to drink?"

"No, thank you, Captain." She sat, smoothing her skirt. With her hands folded in her lap, she smiled in a serene, yet somehow opaque way that unsettled him. Immediately a wrinkle appeared in her brow. "Is there something wrong?"

"Not at all." Then he met her eyes and remembered she could sense what he felt. "It's just, well, this is not something I am accustomed to -- the last counselor I saw was the one who did the assessment following the Stargazer incident -- " He tugged his uniform and sat down.

"Yes, I have your file. I understand that this will be the first time you've had a counselor aboard full time. What do you think about that?"

"I think it's a sign that Starfleet is taking the well being of its officers more seriously, and that it will make a difference in the outcome of our mission -- keeping the crew at optimum efficiency would of course include facilitating their mental well being, and mental health personnel aboard starships is a logical next step in providing a well-rounded health program."

"I see. How do you feel about having a counselor aboard?"

Picard blinked. "I believe I just told you."

"No, sir," she began slowly, smiling as if about to laugh, "you recited Starfleet propaganda about having a counselor aboard. There were no feelings, implicit or explicit, in your words."

"Well, I -- I feel that it's a good idea." Her smile faded somewhat. She sat back slightly, crossed her legs, adjusted the slit in her skirt so as not to expose too much leg, and met his gaze.

"That is a a judgment, not a feeling."

"How are my feelings germane to the -- to anything?"

"Your feelings are germane to you, and your mental health. Which is in turn germane to the proper and efficient functioning of an entire starship."

He leaned back in his chair, staring at the now-sober little woman he'd picked from a list several months before, based on some letters of recommendation from a psychiatrist and a starship captain he'd never met. It didn't matter who he picked, he'd reasoned, assuming a counselor would be there primarily for the crew's sake and not really thinking much beyond that. He'd never heard a counselor confront him this way. They'd all accepted his answers and gone away to write their reports.

The smile came back, formal and opaque again. "You don't like the idea of having a counselor aboard very much, do you?"

"I said no such thing!"

"You didn't have to, really. Even if I couldn't sense it, the distaste shows in your eyes and in the tightness around your mouth." She paused, waiting until he stopped silently berating himself for forgetting the difference between her and other Betazoids he'd met, and just as he recovered she said, "I won't make a habit of making observations based on what I sense if you will be honest with me. Is that fair?"

He exhaled loudly, shaking his head. "This is not what I expected, Counselor."

"I understand. This is our first meeting in this capacity, Captain, and while it won't be a regular, ongoing series of sessions, we will have many others. They will not all be assessments intended to placate concerned admirals. Therapy is not necessarily about analyzing and assessing -- the primary purpose, throughout the history of mental health, has always been to help people. I would prefer that you think of it as something other than a necessary evil, as it would be more efficacious if you did so, but this is as good a place to start as any. What do you think counseling might help you with?"

Picard stared at her again. She was quite pleasant to look at, really. He found himself comparing her to the last counselor he'd met, also Betazoid but taller and more angular in the face, not so feminine or --

"Distracting yourself isn't going to help," she murmured, eyes narrowing. He panicked. Had she read his mind? Could she do that? He thought he remembered her saying otherwise. He sat still, hopefully stone-faced and trying to tamp down the anxiety. She looked at the floor and cleared her throat softly. "I want to reassure you that anything you say in a session with me will remain confidential, even if you wanted to discuss illegal or unethical acts. The only exception to this would be if something you said led me to believe you intended to harm yourself or others." She raised her eyes slowly, meeting his gaze again as she finished. "I promise that this confidentiality extends to anything I sense, as well. Assessments I may make on behalf of a third party, in this case Starfleet, are the only exceptions, and even then they would see only a summary of pertinent information. Do you have any questions?"

"I don't think I can do what you want."

"What do you mean?" She tilted her head inquisitively.

"My feelings are not important in this context." One of her eyebrows twitched.

"I can think of several contexts that would apply. To which are you referring?"

"This context. The ship. I fail to see how my feelings have anything to do with -- "

"Captain," she chided, softly yet firmly. She'd already addressed that, hadn't she?

"I understand the point -- but really, I don't need counseling."

"What would have to happen for you to need counseling?" She crossed her arms.

"Something. . . problematic. I suppose."

"Such as?"

Picard glanced down at his desk, at the screen he'd darkened not so long before, at the padd he'd set aside, at the fish, and finally back at her. She waited with her hands once more folded in her lap.

"Captain, you understand the reasons I am here in an abstract fashion, but I am unconvinced that you accept them. You're very uncomfortable and I feel I should apologize for that; it certainly isn't my intention to cause discomfort. I had hoped we could come to an understanding of what benefit counseling might have for you. At the very least, I hope that we can establish a relationship -- Captain?"

He swallowed, nodded, and swallowed again. "I am the captain of this vessel. I expect to maintain professional relationships with my officers."

"I'm a licensed psychologist as well as an officer. The relationship I refer to is a therapeutic one, and in that respect a professional one. I could hardly be an effective counselor for you if I encouraged a close personal relationship."

"Oh." Picard regained his equilibrium somewhat. "I see. Thank you for clarifying."

"So the question -- what do you expect counseling to do for you?" She smiled again, polite, restrained.

"I suppose I've not thought about it. Other than not liking the experience, it seemed to me that it only wasted time. My last encounter with one, for example, was after we lost the Stargazer. I could have told any admiral, I wasn't debilitated by losing my ship, or the losses of crew members -- saddened, dismayed, perhaps angry at myself, and it may have been that I blamed myself. But it was my responsibility to see to the ship's safety, and that of the crew."

"It must have been difficult," she said.

"For a while. But by the time we got back to Earth I was adjusting, accepting the loss with less anxiety and a more realistic perspective of what happened."

"And how did you do that, I wonder?" Picard tried to decipher the reason for this intrusive question, but her tone was genuinely curious and interested, hardly demanding or prying; only the question itself bothered him.

"The same way anyone else does, I suppose."

"But there are so many ways of handling grief, or guilt, or fear."

"How do you handle such emotions?"

The blurted question didn't disturb her in the least. "I have a variety of ways. Sometimes by talking to friends, or my mother. Sometimes I see another counselor. I find that meditation helps me manage stressful situations as well. It depends on how and what I feel. Do you have friends you talk to?"

"I have friends. Most of them are on other vessels now."

"Does that make you sad?"

He snorted, then caught himself. "It's like that in Starfleet. I'll hear from them once in a while."

"What about family?"

"I haven't spoken to my brother in quite some time. I have no other family."

"I see anger in your face when you mention him." She probably also sensed the surge of resentment. 

He frowned. "We were talking about Starfleet, I believe."

"Yes." Troi uncrossed her legs and smoothed her skirt again. "Have you always wanted to be in Starfleet?"

"You know, this is really rather pointless," Picard exclaimed, leaning forward, elbows on the desk. The counselor's dark eyes hardened and her head tipped forward slightly. She recrossed her arms.

"Really?"

"I don't mean the counseling -- this line of questioning, it doesn't seem to have a purpose."

"If I know nothing about you, how could I possibly assess changes in the future? If each individual is unique then there can be no objective measure of normality I can refer to when -- "

"Yes, I understand. But there are some topics. . . ."

"Personal ones. I'm sorry I caused discomfort." She paused and seemed to be thinking. "I think it might be best to set another appointment for next week. It might be helpful if you took the time to consider what we might discuss."

"All right. Thank you for coming, Counselor." The diplomatic smile returned in full force.

"Perhaps we could talk about how you felt when Q captured our ship and forced us to stand trial." Her tone was cheerful, as if she spoke of an innocuous topic he would have no trouble with. She rose, smiling to match her tone, and took several sweeping steps around her chair toward the door. "Good day, Captain."

He said nothing, only watched her leave. He thought about this new and unexpected development, shrugging it off at last -- he decided to head for the gymnasium. He hadn't yet checked out the facilities, and staying on top of his physical fitness was a priority. Dr. Crusher had scheduled first-time physicals for everyone, though most had had a recent physical on record; it was her way of getting to know her patients. He had a long history of excellent health and he intended to maintain it.

~^~^~^~^~

The office she'd been given felt too big. Two sofas, a low table, plenty of space to have entire families in if she wanted. Lots of soft pastel colors to soothe and relax people. In the corner, her desk, as if it were an afterthought. She considered the arrangement. Would it be better to sit at the desk, or on the sofa? The sofa might be more conducive to relaxing, thus freeing the conversation from expectations. Or the desk, where he would be more at home -- somewhere with a more official context. The desk, then.

When the annunciator sounded, she'd settled in behind her desk and begun to meditate, turning her focus to her own emotions and doing her best to block out those of the crew. It was often difficult to do, for her. When she succeeded it usually meant interruptions shocked her. She jumped, caught her breath, and said, "Come in," noting as she did so that it was early. She knew it wasn't the captain. It was worse -- the first officer came in, smiling at her as he approached the desk.

"I haven't seen you around much over the last couple of weeks. Got a minute?"

"Hello." She stopped short of his name, trying to honor his request that she not call him Bill again. He preferred to be called Will now. But it was so automatic for her -- she'd thought of him that way for a long time. "I can spare a few moments, but I have an appointment soon."

"I just wanted to check in, see that everything's all right." There was a distance in his voice she found uncomfortable. It was the same distance he'd had each time they met so far on the Enterprise, and she wondered whether it was his rank or meeting her again after all this time that caused it. Certainly he wouldn't have expected to see her again, and the awkwardness of finding her aboard his assigned ship had been a complication he mostly ignored.

"Everything's fine," she lied, looking at him, smiling, and it was at that point that she decided -- everything would be fine. She would give up this idea that he would see her as anything but his subordinate. "I've been busy, that's all." Busy thinking about her job, about him, about her own feelings -- nothing he needed to know about.

"Settling into the job, then. Good." He swung his leg over the back of the chair she'd placed facing her desk, readjusting it to face her more directly. "I was hoping giving it a little time would help. I know it was a shock to see me -- you probably thought you'd never see me again."

"I was surprised," she admitted blandly. He raised his eyebrows and sat back.

"You were more than surprised."

"What would you like me to do, Commander? What can I say?"

Sighing, he slumped forward again. "Deanna. I'm sorry about what happened between us, but it's in the past. I would like for us to be able to work together."

"Good. I intend to do whatever is necessary to that end. I think that it would be best for both of us to maintain a strictly-professional relationship."

Bill -- Will, she corrected herself -- stared at her in disbelief. "That isn't what you seemed to expect."

"What I did and said when you came aboard was unprofessional and automatic," she exclaimed, careful to keep her voice even, determined to avoid an emotional outburst. "When you left Betazed, I believed you would meet me at a specific time for our wedding. That you accepted a posting on a starship and left without telling me you wouldn't be coming back -- "

"I tried to -- "

"But I didn't hear from you," she continued. "And now it really doesn't matter. Because you are the first officer, and I'm the ship's counselor, and I know, however much I wished otherwise, that I will never be so important to you as Starfleet. So it makes no sense to continue to hope for anything but friendship. I hope that we may be friends, Will." There. She'd said the name, just the way he wanted, without hesitation. And the rest -- closure to a part of her life that she had never wanted to end, worded carefully to avoid bitterness or anger, just as she'd rehearsed.

He inhaled, exhaled, seemed at a loss for words. At length, he said, "I never considered you less important to me than Starfleet."

"I waited for you," she murmured. "You were on a starship. How many messages did you send? One. An apology, then silence. That in the month after our supposed wedding I did not receive anything more tells me more than the message you did send. I don't doubt you meant well, but I think you overestimated your feelings for me."

"How -- you -- " He rose straight up from the chair, stood over her desk like a vengeful god, and then, remarkably, as his face reddened he spoke in nearly-normal tones. "I loved you, Deanna. How could you doubt that? You could sense how I felt!" The past tense struck her through the heart like a hot, sharp knife.

"I sensed how you felt, yes. Which was why your behavior broke my heart then, and why I say this to you, sensing your feelings for me now. I don't want to dredge up the past. I only wanted you to know that in spite of my feelings, in spite of the past, I would like to be your friend, Will. I don't intend to be vindictive or hurtful. I thought you should know my feelings as well. May we please start over?"

He struggled through his reaction to this, taking his time, staring at the floor, and she watched the time with growing anxiety. The captain would arrive soon. At last, Will raised his eyes and held out a hand. "All right. Friends." She shook it firmly, and he recovered some of his smile. "I won't behave that way again."

"I'm positive that you won't." She smiled, resolved to prevent it herself. "I have an appointment in a bit -- perhaps lunch tomorrow?"

"That sounds great. Who's coming in already for counseling?"

"I can't tell you that. Confidentiality must be preserved."

His smile turned anticipatory and he put a foot on the chair, propping an elbow on his raised knee. "And speaking of appointments, when am I supposed to come in? You said you intended to have all the senior staff in at least once, as a kind of introduction to counseling."

"You'll be seeing Lieutenant Jennings. Ethics prohibit a mental health professional from counseling a former lover. Sex and therapy don't go together." She sat back in her chair, hoping she didn't seem smug. "I'll only be present during official annual assessments, which he will also perform."

"But it was years ago," he exclaimed, putting his foot down. "You aren't just making this up to get even, are you?"

"I suggest that you review the Federation Association of Mental Health Code of Ethics, section two, if you have any questions. If you'll excuse me. . . ." She glanced pointedly at the chronometer displayed on her terminal.

"All right," he said with a sigh. He turned and headed for the door. "Lunch tomorrow. I'll look that up. Thanks."

With Will gone -- it was easier now to use the name, especially if she thought of him as a different man than the one she'd known -- she tried to meditate again in what little time she had left.

The captain was on time, down to the second. He entered her office as she opened her eyes. He, too, was at peace and in a relatively good mood. "Good afternoon, Counselor."

"Captain. Thank you for coming."

"I've been thinking about this," he exclaimed, dropping into the chair Will had vacated, "and I believe I owe you an apology."

"Sir?" This was the last thing she expected. More resistance, perhaps further denial, anything but a request for forgiveness.

"You have a job to do. I've made that difficult for you. I believe that a captain has a responsibility to his crew to help them in any way possible to become better officers. I'm not quite certain what to do in here, and I really don't see how dwelling on the past would be of any use to either of us, but if it's what you require. . . ."

"No." Suddenly, she had a lump in her throat and her eyes were stinging. "I actually wanted to discuss this with you first -- last time we got off to a rough start. What I require is only time to acquaint ourselves with one another. As you say, you don't really need any sort of intervention -- but I didn't know that at first. My only goal now is to achieve a level of comfort, a base for us to work from should a need for therapy arise. You value expediency and efficiency. This seemed to me the best way to plan for any future interventions that may be necessary."

He nodded, making internal adjustments to her new narrative. He liked what she suggested, she could tell. "Where should we begin, then?"

"Anywhere you would like. Whatever you think I would need to know for future reference." He met her gaze, and she saw in his clear hazel eyes what she hadn't seen the previous week -- acceptance, appreciation, openness. Now that he had found a way of viewing these sessions that agreed with his chosen principles, he had no fear, only a minimal lingering anxiety that evaporated when she gave her new definition of their time together. This was her duty, and his duty was to facilitate her growth as an officer.

"Future reference," he echoed. "Well. Let's see. I applied for the Academy early, took the entrance exam at sixteen. . . ." She listened as he summarized his file, in his own words. 

That only made sense; his career was his identity, all else was minimized, put away where not even he could find it. It wouldn't last; there would come a time when actual therapy had to happen. He would be uncomfortable and reluctant, perhaps even refuse to participate at first. She might have to appeal to regulations and his sense of duty. But it was a promising beginning. Letting him recite his file was a first step in his development of a sense of relationship with her -- building rapport was important for a good therapeutic relationship.

She smiled encouragingly, and enjoyed the return to the role of counselor, in which she was to remain empathetic, genuine, and yet detached enough to function professionally. In this office she could survive any emotional turmoil, because it would not be her own. It wasn't unlike the captain's approach to his own career, come to think of it -- his intentional boundary between work and personal issues was an adjustment he had made to further his career. 

The realization must have shown in her face; he faltered in describing his experiences as a lieutenant. "Counselor?"

"I'm sorry. You reminded me of something. Please, continue." He eyed her dubiously but complied, falling into his own narrative easily. Relating events wasn't difficult for him. She listened attentively, letting his unspoken emotions flow around her like a gentle current, noting the occasional rise and fall of stronger feelings in certain instances and asking an occasional question to keep him going. Though he discounted his own emotions, he felt quite strongly about what he'd been through. About people he knew, even though in his stories they only played roles.

This was a man with determination and discipline like she had rarely seen before, whose attention remained focused entirely on what he deemed necessary to do his duty. Without a doubt, she would learn a lot on the Enterprise -- from her experiences as a member of the crew, from working with Will Riker, and from the captain. If she could manage the calm she had in therapy sessions while on the bridge or an away team, the calm demonstrated by Captain Picard, she would feel like an accomplished officer. She might have a later start than the captain, but she could do it. It would make him proud of her.

"Counselor?"

"I'm sorry," she said again. "You have an impressive history. I'm enjoying your version of it -- all the details that aren't in your file. Thank you for being willing to come."

He blinked -- that had caught him off guard. He still didn't understand what she learned from all of this. "I don't see. . . you're welcome."

"Is there anything else you think I should know?"

His eyes drifted down, appeared to settle on her chest, and jerked up again. "I don't believe I've said much of anything of importance, really. I'm not sure what else I could say."

"You've told me more than you think."

Nervousness crept in, and his next smile was forced. "Should I return next week?"

"I don't believe that will be necessary, but thank you." She paused, then decided that this may be an instance in which her transparency might help. "Would you like to hear my notes from last session?" He blinked at her, clearly stunned. "You do have a right, as my client, to see your file. Unless I think it will be detrimental, and in this case we don't have that problem."

"Well. If it isn't a problem. . . ." His curiosity piqued, he sat forward, expectant. She touched a few controls and started the recording she'd made following their last appointment. Her recorded voice always sounded odd to her.

The first session was uncomfortable, as it often is with any client who has had little experience in therapy and doesn't know what to expect. Consequently, he spent the majority of our time avoiding any expression of self, preferring instead to argue whether or not this was useful, or relevant. He seems most concerned with duty, and with facilitating the performance of his crew. Currently, he denies himself the experience of emotion in dealing with crew; remaining in control of himself is his priority. His discomfort with the thought that I, as an empath, can sense his feelings seems to further indicate his unwillingness to face his own emotional reactions. Deeming them irrelevant may be his way of rationalizing the repression, which in turn frees him to handle his responsibilities without the burden of processing his own feelings. Further assessment would be necessary to determine if any pathology is present. Thus far, I see nothing that would indicate that it is. End entry.

She waited for a few breaths. "Do you have any questions?"

"It seems straightforward, and not what I expected at all. Is that a typical entry?"

"Fairly typical. I prefer to defer diagnosis until I have enough information, and in your case a diagnosis is not required if no dysfunction is present."

He smiled, this time more genuine and definitely more at ease. "And you don't think you'll find any?"

"I couldn't say."

"You don't think you should be certain of that?"

"Perhaps I should be certain. But that would require further sessions, and you don't appear to want them -- there is a point at which a counselor cannot progress in the face of resistance, and though you express the willingness to come here for my sake, the sessions will be of little use unless you are here for yours."

He pondered, eyes drifting to his left and losing focus briefly, then decided. "I'll see you next week, Counselor."

"Very well. I'll see you on the bridge in the morning, Captain."

"Thank you, Counselor." The response was automatic; he immediately reacted with awkwardness and slight embarrassment, but recovered quickly. Tugging his uniform, he strode from the room as if released from captivity.  
The return to their roles as officers had shaken him from the role of client, but she had made a connection. The therapeutic relationship could take several sessions to establish; in two, she had the beginnings of one with probably the least expressive client she had had.

Smiling, she said, "Computer, record today's entry for the file of Captain Jean-Luc Picard. . . ."


End file.
